Los Angeles Stories Read Online Free Page A

felt like an ironing board, but I had to say something. “What do you mean, connections?”
    â€œA suicide on Bunker Hill, a dead musician in hock to the bookies, and a spic dismemberment down in the Flats. And Frank St. Claire knew them all.”
    â€œI meet people in my job, I don’t know them. Except for Mr. John.”
    â€œJohn Casaroli jumps off the roof and you inherit. Why? Tell me that. Make it sound good.”
    â€œI really don’t know.”
    â€œA couple of bright boys were seen hanging around there. Friends of yours?”
    â€œI don’t have any friends since Mr. John died.”
    â€œYou create a disturbance at the Clark home while a service is going on. No respect for the dead, it seems. Why’s that?”
    â€œI was doing my job, how could I know?”
    â€œThe widow says you told her to hand over the clarinet. Says you threatened her.”
    â€œShe’s lying. She gave it to me.”
    â€œWhy would she lie?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œAll right, Utah Street. Some character slices this guy’s arm off and beats him with it. There’s blood on the walls. Maybe it spells ‘book,’ maybe he was overdue at the library, I wouldn’t know. But, here’s Frank St. Claire at the scene, within minutes, and that’s just one too many times in my book.”
    â€œThe supervisor makes all the decisions. I think he was punishing me for the trouble with Howdy Clark. Nobody wants to work the Flats.”
    The detective got up. “Nobody’s as dumb as you act,” he said. He left the room. After a while, an officer in uniform came and took me down the hall to another room. A man in a white coat was seated behind a desk. He told me to sit down and relax. Relax! How could I?
    â€œI’m Dr. Sonderborg,” the man said. “I’m going to ask you some questions.”
    â€œI’ve done nothing,” I said.
    â€œBegin, if you will, by telling me about yourself. Anything that comes to mind.”
    â€œNothing comes to mind.”
    â€œI see you’re a single man, living alone. Do you have a girlfriend?”
    â€œI know a girl. I know three girls altogether, but I recently met one in particular.”
    â€œTell me about her. What’s her name?”
    â€œRene. She runs a beauty parlor on Olive and Fifth.”
    â€œIs she kind to you, is she affectionate? Responsive?”
    â€œShe says I might be a mad dog from hell. ‘The jury’s out,’ is how she puts it.”
    â€œAnd that makes you angry.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWould you say her behavior towards you is cruel? Belittling?”
    â€œOh, no. She’s really a nice person.”
    â€œDo you ever ask her to hurt you, to punish you?”
    â€œWhat? What is this, who are you?” Maybe the police are crazy, I thought.
    â€œDo you hate the police?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you plotting against the government of the United States?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAre you a Communist?”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I said. The doctor pushed a button on the desk and the detective came in the room.
    â€œWhat do we got?” he asked.
    â€œWhy do you waste my time? Get him out of my office. Drop him off in Griffith Park. I went to medical school for eight years, Spangler. Eight goddamn years.”
    â€œAnd you got a very tough job here, Sonderborg,” Spangler said with obvious distaste.
    Detective Spangler gave me back my briefcase and told me not to leave town. I left the police building and walked up the Hill. The police believe everything is a pattern. Once they see a pattern, they think they know it all, and they think they got you. That’s not the way life is. Take it from me, life is random and inscrutable, like the City Directory . Or my name isn’t St. Claire, Frank, chkr, Alta Vista Apts 255 Alta Vista Ave., Ls Angls.

Who do you know that I don ' t?
    1949

    T HE STREETCAR